


Exercises in Lewdness

by Dysptera



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Moderately Slow Burn, Multi, Other, Pokephilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-19 18:23:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8220542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dysptera/pseuds/Dysptera
Summary: Margeaux works for the Pokemon Center in Lumiose City, not really experiencing much in her life besides work and video games. Her life changes suddenly after reuniting with a childhood friend, and soon, she finds herself spiraling uncontrollably into a life of sex, drugs, and terrible music. Everything she holds dear hinges on a few decisions that must be made quickly, but it becomes increasingly unclear just what decisions must be made, and what parts of her life she must leave to chance as she continues down the proverbial rabbit hole.





	1. Serenity is a Four Letter Word; Let Coffee Lead the Way

**Author's Note:**

> I spent way too long thinking about whether or not I was actually going to write this, but I think I'm glad I did. I hope you enjoy the ride.

Even the most unfavorable chaos has a way of presenting intriguing opportunities. Sometimes, people have to hurt a little before they realize what they really want out of life. Stress and heartache, revered to be the chief catalysts of misery in most lives, on occasion, poke holes in the dark void I know as complacency, allowing soothing and novel lights to beam forth to the downtrodden. I don't like to think of myself as one of these people, cast away from their dreams by the unerring tides of fate (only to be thrust into an entirely new life filled with new duty and new desire, ever conflicting), but the more I stress and the more I ache, all the more I find myself pleading with the endless void to show me something altogether fresh, something revitalizing. I need to feel good about myself again. If not about myself, then maybe I need just to feel good again about anything. Give. Me. Something.

Whenever there's a blackout in Lumiose City, all nearby field nurses are called back from their assigned routes to assist with the inevitable overflow of distressed and hurt Pokemon and people coming into the Pokemon Center. Upon this particular blacked-out night, I find myself shuffling about from one upset person to another, healing countless Pokemon using a specialized, portable device. Apparently, some pretentious Dragon-user is going around wiping out everyone from Ace Trainers to Preschoolers, and the effect this is having on Pokemon Center traffic is preposterous. Every five minutes, maybe less, some poor trainer will come in with their prized Bidoof covered in the kind of gashes that only a Dragon can inflict. This goes on for a couple of hours, and at this point, I'm about as mad at this guy as anyone else here. And finally, lo and behold, he arrives.

Tightly coiffed, dyed-crimson hair; a face sharp enough to slice; a well-rendered battle suit that resists fire, completed by black, knee-high boots and a scarlet cape: these are the makings of a Dragon Tamer, if I've ever seen one. He comes up to the counter to my left where Pokemon are already being healed, and the nurse there refers him to me. He walks over, seeming somewhat embarrassed. He doesn't carry himself like any Dragon-user I've seen before. He's far too awkward in the way he walks, the gestures he makes, and the way his smile fades away just before anyone can see it properly. This kind of person he wants to be, who walks hard and lives defiantly, should be much more intimidating, but this man is just some kind of soft, some kind of charming. I'm sure he'd be ticked to know that's what I think of him, so I wordlessly promise to keep my thoughts to myself.

“So I'm told I should come to you for this, and … “ He trails off, apparently unable to finish a sentence.

“Welcome to the Lumiose Pokemon Center. We welcome the weary. If you'll just hand me your Pokemon, I can get started for you,” I chime, not missing a beat of the greeting.

“Sorry, uh, here,” he murmurs, fumbling for a single Pokeball. He hands it to me. Inside is a rather aggressive-looking Noivern, but it barely seems to be injured at all, even tired out by what should have been hours of battling. A good night's sleep could heal this Pokemon just as much as anything else, but of course, it's my job to give it a healing jolt anyway. I gently place the Pokeball in the healing pod and shut the lid. I hit some buttons to lower the potency of the healing agents to 20%, so as not to waste much power, and flip the switch to turn it on. He starts to say something, but then fails to say anything at all.

“Is anything the matter?” I ask.

“No, no. It's just – and I know – this is kind of a strange thing to say to someone you've barely even met, but – I just – I feel like I know you. Is your name Margeaux Summers, by any chance?” What?

“That is, indeed, a strange thing to say to someone. But as it happens, that's exactly my name! How is it that you happen to know me? I'm sorry if I've forgotten you from somewhere.”

“No need to apologize. Just – I lived near you when I was a child. I could never forget your face, I suppose. Do you remember a boy named Zidane?”

“Only faintly,” I manage to say, startled. Is this man really about to say that he's the Zidane I grew up with? He … was my first friend, ever. We were like two very small peas, locked together in the pod of childhood. There is nothing faint about my memory of this boy, and to think that he turned into some sort of showboating dragon dork, it's simply ridiculous! Life can, of course, be ridiculous at times, but I'm finding this a little hard to believe.

“Well, I suppose faintly is enough. It's so surprising to see you after all these years, let alone in someplace where I expect to meet no one.”

“What brings you back to Kalos? If I recall correctly, you moved away somewhere.”

“To Kanto, to be precise. Viridian City, to be even more precise. I wish I had more time to talk to you, honestly.”

“As do I. You know, my shift here ends in about an hour. If you want to catch up, I can meet you somewhere.” I don't know why I'm saying this. Why am I trying to arrange plans with a man I've only just now seen, after 12 long years?

“Where would you like to meet?” he asks, just as his Pokemon finishes healing up.

“How about Cafe Introversion? I go there from time to time, and I feel like it would be a good fit for you.” This is crazy. I'm crazy. There's no way I can do this. But I'm doing this.

“Introversion? I – sure. Yes. I'll meet you there.”

When I hand him back his Noivern, he smiles brightly, staring me right in the eyes.

“I sincerely look forward to seeing you later,” he says, with some newfound confidence.

“Well, I –“ I start, mysteriously absorbing his clumsiness with words. “I feel the same.”

We shake hands, and he's gone.

I spend the next hour bored out of my skull, fixated intently and only on the fact that I have a date tonight. Wait, is it a date? I should hope not. We barely know each other beyond our childhood years together, after all. And even then, what if he's just as much a tyrant as some of those kids seemed to think he was? I can't stop thinking. I just can't stop myself. What if we become friends again? Will he be overbearing and clingy, or will he be more of a relaxed friend – a chill dude, as some would say. What if he wants to be more than friends? I haven't had a boyfriend since I was 15. What if he wants even more than that? I know what people from other regions say about Kalosian girls, and if he believes that kind of stuff, he might expect things from me! This is all rather frightening, in earnest. I wish there was some way to know how this is going to work out before it even happens, but if I could tell the future, I'd have to walk around bending spoons all day, as my mother says. That doesn't make much sense, does it? I wish I could make sense of where my life is going.

Coffee has a way of clearing my mind. Of course, this effect is nullified entirely by the fact that my childhood friend is sitting across from me, chatting away about his time training in Kanto with some “Lance” fellow I've never heard of before. He seems to be much less nervous here, as if he's used to this place. He's comfortable, leaning back in his chair and completely ignoring his coffee as he rambles to me about the time I've missed. Maybe he's more into tea. Perhaps he's not much for hot drinks at all. After all, the coffee place was my suggestion. I hope I've not upset him at all by asking him here.

“So, how about you?” he finally chimes, leaning forward again and taking a quick sip from his mug. “What have you been doing all these years, and how did you end up working at a Pokemon Center?”

“Well, I've been doing fine, really. Honestly, nothing eventful has really happened since I graduated high school. I just got a job here as an assistant, worked my way up to field nurse, and now I'm just kind of … coasting. Coasting, right? Just working from one day to the next, looking for something to break the monotony.” I probably shouldn't have said it like that. I don't want to imply at all that he's part of the monotony, just that I feel kind of stuck. Wait, is that even something I should say to him at all?

“I know what you mean. After learning everything I could from the Pokemon League in Kanto, I find myself in a sort of drifting state, waiting for the next big thing. Honestly, I'm back in Kalos because I'm looking for new Dragon-types, but sometimes I wonder if that's even what I want out of life, to have more, ever more dragons. It doesn't feel right just to collect Pokemon like they're toys, not to me, you know?”

“I know what you mean. I only have two Pokemon, just for that reason. I have Azura, my Floette, to help me with healing Pokemon, but she's my friend, too.”

“And what's your other Pokemon like?”

“Oh, yeah. His name's Francois. He's actually quite high-maintenance, but I love him, in the end. He's an Eevee, by the way.”  
“I like Eevees. They're so full of potential, just the tip of the proverbial iceberg, you know? So much power, hidden within such tiny bodies. You're like that, too, I think.”

I don't know what to say. Am I blushing? I'm blushing. Shit. He's looking at me, smiling like that. I don't have a tiny body, do I? Not too tiny, I should hope. Not that it matters. It doesn't matter what he thinks of my body. Why am I doing this?

“W-what makes you think I'm like an Eevee?”

“Well,” he starts, staring off. “There's something about you. I've not always known. It's just that – I feel like you could do something great. I can't explain it, really.”

“Huh. I'm flattered, I suppose.”

“That was my intention,” He smirks a little. It soon turns into a smile. I smile back at him. For a moment, I find myself at peace.

We end up talking deep into the night, even after the cafe closes, walking around the streets at night. I feel like I've never been so close to someone before, even though we just reunited. Zidane walks me back to my apartment, which ends up just across the street from Introversion, and we take a moment by the entrance. We exchange phone numbers, and he says he wants to meet with me again. I hope he means it.

And then it hits me. Right before he leaves, he kind of lingers for a moment, not expecting anything, but just conveniently lingering. If I'm going to kiss this boy, now is the time. But do I want to kiss this boy? I see nothing wrong with it in a sense. He's awfully cute, in a way, but at the same time, what if kissing him ruins my chance at restoring our old friendship? What if he doesn't like it? I haven't kissed anyone in three years. What if, even if I am still good, he's ten thousand times better for some reason, and he thinks I'm bad at it anyway? What if he's bad at kissing? Would I still want to see him again if he turns out to be a bad kisser? Would that make me a bad person? Am I a bad person for wanting to kiss him? What if the kiss gets too intimate or too sexy? Can a kiss be too sexy? I suppose it can if it's the first kiss. Things should start out more demure, right? But what if he wants me to give him a sexy kiss? If he does, should I, or should I wait? Is it better to make him wait?

As I'm thinking, he turns around, says goodbye, and starts to walk off. I become so embarrassed I could cry. Just standing there, thinking about kissing, like an idiot, I let him get away. There are worse things, but right now, it doesn't feel like it. I take the elevator instead of the stairs tonight. I just don't feel like making the effort at the moment.

The more I think about it, the more I think that the reason I wanted to kiss him is because I'm just looking for anything to excite me and inspire change in my life. But then again, he really is just … cute. He's very cute. Why is he so cute? Why are human beings allowed to be this cute? It's in his face, the way he laughs, the way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not looking back

That's it. I need to kiss him. Not to change my life, but just to feel good. I'm certain it will be good. I swear to myself, here and now, that I will kiss him within the next 24 hours, if at all possible. I remember hearing that the first kiss will tell you everything you need to know about a person. I'm not sure what I'll learn, but one thing's for certain: I simply have to know everything.

 

 


	2. Chaos is Inevitable; The Meaning of Frontiers

If I could say anything of love, it's that I've never found it. Sometimes, I wonder if I ever will find it, or if I even want to find it. There are those who would, tirelessly, search for love. I find myself dreaming of it at times, but never allowing infatuations and limerence to go beyond what they simply are: temporary. When I was a child, there were moments when I would have said that I love Zidane, but now that I'm older, I can see that I only believed that because I thought I was supposed to love him. He's a boy, and he's nice, and he's not one of those ones that shows affection by murdering small animals, so it's supposed to be a given thing that I should have loved him. Even now, with the thought of his lips persistent in its presence in my mind, love is the furthest thing from what I can imagine between us.

Oh, right. His lips. I can't seem to get them out of my head. Ever since I made that vow to kiss him, I've been becoming increasingly obsessed with the notion that his lips might just meet mine. It's something I thought about as a child, of course, because one does such things, but now, with the prospect of it at hand, the opportunities missed still burning in my brain, the idea that new opportunities might present themselves needling its way into my consciousness, I can't help but feel giddy.

My train of thought is interrupted by Francois tackling my legs, which almost sends me to the ground. It must be time to feed him, or something. Haven't I already fed him? What could he want, then? He just stares up at me, with those big eyes shining, silvery ears folded in adorable resignation. Maybe it's time to take him for a walk. Yeah, that seems about right. We haven't been out today, for anything.

That's how it goes, usually. On my days off from healing Pokemon, I tend not to do anything at all, instead winding up in a malaise of video games and cheese-flavored snacks, broken up occasionally and exclusively by Francois's needs. Azura spends time with me as well, but she keeps to herself, for the most part, aside from eating. I briefly consider taking my massive jar-tub of cheese puffs with me, but I know that passersby would be critically judgmental, so I refrain. I get Francois's collar from off the hook beside the door, and I don't even have to call him over, for he's been following me around the whole time I've been preparing to leave. Now that I'm decent, clean, and reasonably put-together, it's time to reenter the outside world.

Lumiose City is a beautiful place, but it can be terribly crowded at times. I spend what feels like an hour or so walking around with Francois's leash in hand, fording what seems an eternal river of tourists, stragglers, and, of course, their Pokemon. During the day, almost everyone here walks with at least one Pokemon out, which seems nice when you first think about it. It has its downsides, however, mainly that Francois doesn't play well with others. He yips protectively at just about everything that passes by, from something as small as a Dedenne to as large as a Noivern. Wait, a Noivern? Please tell me this isn't actually happening.

Zidane just happens to be walking the same street as me, as things are. I call out to him, and he doesn't seem to hear over the chattering of his dragon. As I walk toward him, I'm suddenly overcome by a wave of dread. He's right there. What if it's too early to see him again? He might be one of those people who likes to wait a few days before seeing someone again, and maybe I'm intruding on a part of his life he meant to keep private. Regardless, I waver not in my steps. He's still unaware of my presence. And then, as things are, it happens.

Some anonymous passerby bumps into me from behind, apologizing profusely in a language I don't understand. Her apologies cannot possibly make up for what she has just triggered, for as soon as she pushed me, I began to fall into Zidane's unsuspecting arms. He tries to catch me, but he falls over himself, and we tumble across the sidewalk three times; his Noivern lets loose an earsplitting scream as it watches, and the street becomes deathly silent. I finally make sense of what just happened, realizing that my lips are pressed to his, his hands caught against my breast.

Mission accomplished?

After this most recent incident dies down, we walk together for a while, while he talks mostly about how sorry he is. If it hadn't been for his wayward hands, I would likely find myself doing most of the apologizing. It's interesting to me to see him flip between being confident and flustered, and it's earnestly difficult to decide which side of him is cuter. Anyhow, I should be paying attention.

“I'm not sure if this is, uh, the right way to go about things, but I'd like to take you somewhere to m- make this up to you,” he stammers out. Is he trying to ask me out on a date? This is uncharacteristically bold of him, when he's all shy-like.

“Where are you thinking of taking me, exactly?”

“Somewhere nice, I suppose,. I don't really have any plans at the moment, and I guess I was hoping you were about the same. I was going to wait a couple of days,” he trails off, muttering, at this point, to himself. He really did want to wait to see me! Now I know I'm screwed.

“But, uh,” he starts up, practically shaking. “If you want, I could take you to Naissance. I've heard the food there is really good, and stuff.”

Oh my god, it's a date. There's no way he's not asking me out on a date right now. Albeit clumsily, with a pinch of horribleness mixed in, we just kissed, and now he wants to take me to _Naissance,_ which is, for all intents and purposes, The Fancy Dating Zone. Oh my god, this is happening. Shit. I need something to wear.

“How long is it until dinner, right now?” I ask, my heart fluttering.

“I'm not really sure … Let me check my phone.” He reaches into one of his surprising number of pockets and pulls out his phone. “It's 4:30-ish now. When would you want to eat, 6:00?”

“Is 7:00 all right with you? I'm going to need time to get ready, after all.”

He seems confused. “Is it that fancy of a place? Not that I mean to rush you or anything. I mean, what I mean to say is, you already look wonderful.”

He's not even complimenting me that hardcore, but something about the way he talks to me sends shivers down my spine. I'm barely even trying to look like anything right now, so where does he get off saying I look wonderful? Then again, if he thinks this is what wonders look like, that means I can make a much stronger impression once I'm more put-together! I may have kissed him incidentally, but this time, he'll be the one kissing _me._ I can feel it. Oh god, he's still talking.

“I forgot to ask, is all.”

“Forgot what? Sorry, I – I missed some of what you said.”

“If I'm correct in what I heard, Naissance is a vegetarian restaurant. I was just making sure you're fine with that.”

“Well, I am a vegetarian, so that's perfect, actually.”

“Good! I look forward to seeing you there. If you don't mind, we've just reached the hotel I'm staying at. If you're getting prepared for this, I might as well pull out all the stops myself, right? When do you want me to pick you up? I can have a cab by your building whenever you need it.”

“Pick me up at 6:45, thanks. But one more thing, before you go,” I say, attempting to turn on the charm.

“What is it?” he asks, turning to face me. In response, I give him a peck on the cheek, just the faintest taste of what I hope is to come. He blushes profusely, signaling that I've sunk his battleship.

“Tonight will be good,” I tell him, accidentally twirling a little as I walk away. “Don't you think?”

All he can let out is a weakened “Yeah.” It should seem his entire fleet is in the water.

**~*~**

“Would you care from another bottle of _Shalour's Finest_?”

My eyes traverse the vertical splendor of a well-accessorized Simisage and its built-in bouffant, and though my first instinct might have once been to marvel over its choice in work attire – a silky black bow-tie and pearly white cravat combination that is simply _killin' it,_ might I say _–_ my attention can scarcely be diverted from the colossal bottle of champagne ensnared within his fuzzy, apricot colored hands. The waiter standing the left of this snappy creature, befitted in a similar style of uniform that is a little less likely to garner charges of “public indecency,” stands at attention, one hand behind his back whilst the other temporarily assumes the roll of “dish-towel” rack. Though he is clearly trying to rack up a larger bill – a larger tip – in a restaurant that I am simply afraid to see the meal tickets for, his disposition seems to suggest that he is far more interested in moving on to his other duties of table-busing and silent lamentation of insufficient salaries.

My gaze then shifts to my dinner partner, seated directly across from me in this quaint little “bistro-style” setup of two chairs and a small, round table. He appears to be poised, mid-forkful of Caesar salad just grazing his lips – his soft, _supple_ lips – wait, get a hold of yourself, Margeaux! You're in the middle of a currently unconquered date! You don't have time to daydream of cravats and all-too kissable boys when you haven't even made it through the first course.

“Monsieur? Mademoiselle?”

“ _Sim_ , _Simi_?”

The waiter is far more noticeably annoyed the second time around asking for booze refills, but the Simisage, who has now contributed his own voice, seems only amused at the lack of response. After all, in such a fancy-schmancy place, every shift must be spent wading through a miasma of nervous infatuation.

“I don't know what you're thinking,” Zidane begins, leaving his fork to rest gently upon his plate, “But I'm always, y'know, down for getting tipsy. That is – not that I'm an alcoholic or anything! I just, Agnes and I have been on a bit of a winning streak lately, and, well, we can more than afford to live a little, even at a place like this.”

His offer begins with a moment of eye contact, but by the end of it all it has dissolved into the sort of shyness that has left him fidgeting about in his seat like an overcharged Pichu. I cannot help but to look at this display with fondness. This boy-next-door character that has so abruptly tumbled back into my life has on an odd, somehow charming way about him of performing a Teeter Dance between the kind of confident nature a Dragon Trainer should exude and the timidity of a sunless Cherrim. Though I can't assuredly say that this is the kind of boy I could fall in love with if I'm not careful, I have determined that there is something about the duality of his nature, shy and flattering – bold and impetuous – that compels me to want to experience a little more than the bottom of this bottle tonight.

“Well, if that's the case, I can definitely finish a bottle if you can.”

**~*~**

“There are far too many stars out tonight,” Zidane comments, his elbow resting limply across the edge of the taxi door. “With a night like this, how can anyone suggest a black-out?”

A bacchanal giggle escapes my lips before I think better of it, and the sound carries with it the lingering presence of the better half of an overpriced champagne. Was that funny – was it _supposed_ to be funny? Or, perhaps, am I already making a fool of myself in front of a potential suitor that is simply attempting to wax poetic?

“With a night as bright as this, trainers nationwide better expect a shortage in Umbreon,” I offer in response, hoping my facetiousness will render the previous chortling well-warranted.

Lo and behold, and perhaps only because of the fact that the other half of that fancy champagne is currently filtering through his system, Zidane laughs, and my bacon in saved.

The humor of the moment soon fizzles into a peaceful silence after Zidane stumbles a few step forwards to thrust a wad of Pokedollars into the driver's side window, and just like that the two of us are alone on South Boulevard, a Bounce away from my apartment.

“It's really nice of you to be so concerned about walking me home and everything, but I can assure you that Francois and Azura are more than capable of handling a few wayward Ratata on our own,” I mention we reach the bottom of the complex' main steps. “N-not that your company isn't appreciated. I just thought that you might be just as tired as your team, what with all the ass-kicking today and whatnot.” _Idiot._ How could I possibly expect a warm reception from chasing him off? There's no way he won't think what I just said wasn't the cold-shoulder. “We Field Nurses are a lot stronger than we look, y'know!” I add cheerfully, accompanied with a cheesy grin and a flexing of my hardly impressive arm muscles.

Zidane's expression remains a serious one, despite my attempts at humor. “Well, if you must know, it's not the Ratata I'm worried about. Ever since that Cafe Lysander opened up on Magenta, there have been a bunch of freaks running around with Poison Types as aggressive as their fashion sense. You might think the cape is bad, but at least I'm not outfitted in nothing but neon red....”

If I had not been teetering towards inebriation, I would probably be pressed to inquire further about these “Fashion Police” on Magenta, but currently my mind was too flustered to focus on anything other than issues of Zidane and whether or not that champagne tasted better on foreign lips.

“Personally, I've always thought the cape to be quite dashing... _especially_ when you used to wear that pillowcase one when we were kids. Though, back then I think you probably had more of a boner for “Riolu Man” rather than Lance the Dragon Master, haha,” comes my grin-laden retort, subsequently followed by a horrified gasp. You blew it, Margeaux. I'm pretty sure nobody has a successful first date after merging flirtation and the word “boner” into one, terrible sentence. Honestly, could this night get any worse? We're supposed to be charming and vibrant with one another, but right now all we're managing is stumbling around like a couple of Spinda, high on small talk. If the kissing is going to happen, it should have already happened, shouldn't it? Dragon Tamers are supposed to be too regal and reserved to date drunk nurses with sailors tongues – the aghast internal monologue of mine is so eclipsing, it seems to ghost over all other aspects of awareness, and before I know it, the two of us, Zidane and I, have begun a laborious ascent towards the third floor. Damn it, I could have at least been considerate enough to take the elevator.

“As dashing as it may seem, it's not exactly a TM 45 for Kalos girls, ah, the way it is in Kanto, I mean,” Zidane explains, and as if to illustrate his point further, appears to be fumbling with prohibiting the length of the cape from resulting in either of us breaking our neck at the bottom of the stairwell.

“Having trouble with Kalosians, you say? _Well,_ what can I say? Most of us are models after all,” I tease, sparing the tall drink of Fresh Water a critical once-over. When his cheeks tint a faint pink, I feel a small surge of victory overcome me. Score one for Margeaux!

As had become a tradition with Zidane and the type of person I had observed him to be, his bashful expression shifted into something dangerous – and I couldn't put my finger on exactly why it was so – perhaps because it was not so much threatening, as it was inviting. Yes, this was a look that suggested not “I'm a handsome Dragon Tamer, perhaps _too handsome f_ or his own good,” but rather something more along the lines of, “My Hidden Ability is Pantie Dropper.”

“You'd think she was a model by her looks, but, alas, this _girl – this girl_ – is a Field Nurse, but it's pretty hopeless,” he reveals coyly. By this time, we have reached the precipice of my apartment. If I chicken out, or become too embarrassed to deal with his hotness, refuge is but a room away – wait, _did he say Field Nurse?_

“Oh, yeah?” I hum thoughtfully, expectantly. Please, go on! Please tell me that you don't know any other Field Nurses in Kalos!

“Yeah, I mean, she thinks I've got a boner for my Master. But, isn't obvious that I've really got one for _her_?”

I'm not ashamed to admit that Carbos was unnecessary to render the sort of speed with which I found my lips on his – this time perfectly, and with more comforting sense of whether or not Zidane knew how to hold a girl's breast. Instead of reaching for my chest, he pulls me in tight, one hand around my waist, the other clutching my head. Awkwardly, I attempt to mirror what he's doing. As this kiss finally breaks, I am breathless. Yes, I've kissed a boy before, but not like this. This isn't a heifer sacrificed on the altar of high school dating rituals; this is intimate; this is passionate; this is intent. Increasingly, I become aware of just what that intent may be, but being weak at the knees for cute Dragon Tamers is starting to turn into my thing.

“Was that – was I – satisfactory?” he whispers, still running his fingers through my hair.

This time, I'm the blushing fool who can only reply with a “Yeah.”

“Well,” he starts, backing away slowly, trying to adjust himself to his environment. “I suppose I should be heading back to my hotel.” He looks me straight in the eyes, fierce and deliberate for a man who should be even drunker than I am right now. “Unless, of course, you want me to stay.” His facade breaks instantly. “I – I mean, that is, if you would permit me to. This is, of course, and it always has been, your choice. I don't mean to be too imposing. Am I being too -”

I hush him with one finger against his lips, trying my best at an alluring smile. If this is going to happen, it seems like it's going to happen now, and the way things are going, I'm actually excited. I haven't been excited for something like this in so long. The sheer _wanting_ I find myself doing around this boy is going to drive me insane if I don't start acting out my desires. I curl that same finger back twice, so as to call him to the door.

For a moment, I am stuck. My keys should be where they were earlier, and yet, they're not. Oh wait, they're right here. No, no they're not. This is – in a word – infuriating. If I don't lock this man in my room within the next five seconds, there's no telling what regrets I could be filled with for the rest of my life. I have absolutely no intention of letting Zidane fill up the role of The One That Got Away _and_ The Boy Next Door. That's too much power for any one person to have over my heart, and I'm especially not about to let him have this power over a stupid set of keys – there they are. I fiddle with the lock for a second or two, and for just a moment, I could swear I waver in my determination to see this man naked.

But just thinking the word “naked” sends me into a silent giggling fit. I hope he doesn't know just how much I'm blushing right now. I hope he doesn't know just how afraid of this I really am. I want so many things from him, and my wanting is true, but I hope – and I hope above all these things – that he doesn't know I'm a virgin.

 


	3. Axioms of Lust; And Then They Fucked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smuttening is upon us.

He's here. He's actually here. He's inside my apartment. My apartment is a mess. He probably won't notice because he's drunk. Is that a thing? Will he ignore the wasteland of food wrappers and gaming magazines, or is no one in the world drunk enough to miss what I've done here?

“I like it!” he chimes, speaking up after an incredibly uncomfortable, long silence. “I can tell that you actually live here, you know?”

“Uh, yeah, thanks,” I start, nonchalantly sweeping things under the couch with my feet. “Do you want to sit down? I have a couch over there, there's a chair over here, and that's pretty much it, really.” Except, of course, for my bed. Upon this thought, my face burns.

Zidane takes no time in deciding that he wants to sit on the couch, and judging by the way he's looking at me, he wants me to follow suit. I sit down next to him, but not close enough, it would seem, for him. He leans over to me until we're shoulder to shoulder, slowly turning his head towards mine. It's becoming obvious that he wants me to kiss him again.

This time, I place my right hand on his face, whispering for him to close his eyes. He obliges, and I move in for the kill. We connect and separate a few times, twisting a little with each interaction. This kind of kissing seems different, not like the portent of things to come he gave me before we entered my home. He means to go somewhere with this kiss.

And, of course, it's working.

I feel a jolt of surprise when he slips his tongue past my lips. Oh god, I've never even kissed anyone with tongue before! I try to fight back with my own tongue, or whatever it is they do in all the fanfiction I read. He seems amused by this, permitting me to gain ground on him until I reach beyond his teeth. Then, without proper warning, he bites me, just a nip. A sharp cry escapes me, and he starts to pull back, as if guilty, but I push forward onto him, returning with a bite to his lower lip. This elicits not even the smallest of reactions from him, at first, but when our tongues meet again in their debate over the geopolitical consequences of nuclear power in the southern parts of the Sinnoh region, Zidane returns with just a pinch more fervor than before.

I turn the TV on, just to hear something, stifled by the majority silence of our entanglement. As if to attempt to earn dominance over the television, breaking contact with me for only a second, he pushes me over and down to my side of the couch, reestablishing his domain atop my body. We continue for about an entire episode of _Just Friends,_ in what seems a constant battle between doing too much and not doing enough to please one another. In a final act of lust, he trails down past my cheeks, brushing my hair to the side. I'm nervous for what's to come, as it's another one of those things I've simply never experienced before, but if being kissed on the neck is even remotely as good as having it out in a war of tonsils, I should be more than fine.

Just as suspected, neck kisses are wonderful. There are so many kinds, the way he does it. Soft pecks are followed by lusty sucking and licking, which transforms into yet another love bite, causing me to moan, just a little. I can tell this reaction pleases him based on the smile on his face when he returns to view. He gives me a simple kiss on the forehead, something that woos me far more than expected.

“Now that we've begun this dance,” he starts, “do you wish to continue?”

For the smallest possibly imaginable moment, I am unsure. What if I'm terrible at this? What if I've already disappointed him, and he's just asking for more to be polite? What if – No. I silence all these doubts. I cast them out, for they are inferior to the one thing on my mind right now: I really, really, for the first significant time in my life, want to have sex with someone, and I'll be damned forever if I don't get what I want, just this once!

“I, uh, have a bed, you know.” Okay, that wasn't particularly smooth, but cut me some slack, I'm still a little tipsy. Now that I think about it, however, I'm not that drunk at all, buzzed at most. I must have worked some of the alcohol out while going to town on Zidane's face. Is he still drunk? He seems more coherent than he was earlier, but I'm not sure if that means anything.

“Let's keep going, as long as you're still comfortable.”

“I'm more than just comfortable, Zidane, and you know that.” We share a giggle or two at that, and I push him off of me, just long enough to lead him to my smallish bedroom. There's nothing impressive about it, so I hope he's paying more attention to me than anything else.

“So yeah,” I begin, filled with trepidation. “Bed.”

“But first,” he says, staring right through me. “Clothes.”

I do my best to slip out of things, only to find myself stuck in my shirt. Struggling against the odds, I wiggle this way and that in my attempts to achieve freedom. This goes on for what feels like an eternity, but soon my perdition is lifted, for Zidane releases me from my cloth prison. I try to hide my embarrassment, but I surely fail. It's at this time that I notice that he's already down to nothing but thigh-high, black argyle socks, standing tall in more ways than one. Blood rushes to my face once more, and I find myself increasingly unable to control my mind around him with each move he makes.

Soon I'm on the bed, and he's on top of me, trying to rip away what clothing I have left. First comes the bra, freeing up my breasts to be kissed into oblivion by him. As he does this, he finds his way south, and I lift my legs as he pulls down my panties. I've never been this exposed in front of anyone before. Leaving my skirt alone, he starts to descend upon me, planting a trail of kisses down my body as he lowers himself. Never breaking his stare nor his stride, Zidane reaches the point that I can feel his breath on me. Quivering in anticipation, I speak up.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I wonder aloud, doubting that any man would want to start these sorts of things by tasting me.

“I'm absolutely certain, Margeaux.”

Lifting my skirt, he moves forward just enough so as to spread my lips with his fingers. Even this sends small jolts of pleasure up through my spine, manifesting in some preliminary whimpering. I shudder as he takes his first lick, starting at the base, ending in a quick, cursive swirl around my clitoris. He kisses each thigh twice, as if paying tribute to the body from which he is about to partake. Soon he picks up a rhythm, staying by the clit, mesmerizing me with every sweep of his tongue.

I don't think anything has ever made me feel like this. One hand on my thigh, the other on my waist, he continues to delve into my most well-kept secret with abandon. The tempo of things rises and rises, and soon, I find myself holding back noises I never knew I could make. The sound of the TV in the other room becomes a distant memory, and the stress of my life evaporates into a thick, intangible mist above my head. My body is heating up in response, sweating somewhat, as Zidane's tongue gives way to new echelons of ecstasy. It started so simple, so low, but now I can feel a heat rising in my core, a burning that yearns to be felt. As if behind bars, it begs to be set free, allowing me only the tickling flames that pierce the void between itself and myself. I call out to this furious beast of a feeling, crying into the night for more, more, ever more. Zidane takes heed as he rushes me to meet with this creature, a hulking demon that speaks in tongues only known to the tongues of the lewdest men. The monster reaches its hand to me, and unable to contain myself, I grasp its paw firmly, holding on tightly as my body begins to spasm with unspeakable euphoria. I've attempted to find this feeling on my own before, but never to any particular avail. Yet here and now, I lie with my hands covering my face, primal sounds leaking into soft air, a determined boy catalyzing all of the wonders I see and hear in my wildest of fever dreams. Panting deeply, the moaning stops, and the burning winds that seemed to ravage my soul have died down to a glimmering sprinkle of sparks in the distance.

Zidane says something to me that I don't understand, in all my confusion. He starts to get up, almost as if he's leaving. Afraid that he might be, I attempt to speak. “Stay here, with me,” I groan.

“Don't worry,” he replies, cracking his neck, appearing to be searching for something. “I'm right here. I'm just kind of thirsty, is all. Where can I find water here?”

“There's a sink over there,” I mutter, pointing lazily, “and the cups are in the high cupboard to the right. And one more thing …”

“What?”

I give him a thumbs-up. “Good work.”

He comes back holding two glasses of water, offering one to me. I take it kindly, and as I begin to drink, it becomes apparent that I am extremely thirsty, and that I hadn't realized it yet. It also becomes apparent that I am extremely tired. My eyes grow heavy while Zidane talks to me with passion in his voice. He stops talking, for a moment, as he understands the inevitability of my collapse into the dream world, resuming only in hushed tones, right up against my ear, maneuvering himself into being the big spoon. If I weren't so bewildered by sleepiness, I would swear he's trying to talk me to sleep. As I settle into my cocoon of relaxation, it occurs to me that I have, according to my definitions of these things, lost my virginity. I don't feel much different, overall, but somehow, this slight change in the scheme of my life feels significant. My mind races as it grinds to a lulled halt, unable to stop thinking about what sorts of deviant wonders await me as I continue to interact with Zidane.

“Good night,” I tell him, my voice faint.

“Sleep tight,” he responds, determined to see me off as I drift away.

**~*~**

I wake up to a whirlwind of thoughts and sensations. I haven't slept naked in years, and coming back to the conscious world just feels different when there's nothing but blankets separating you from the air. These blankets weren't on me when I first fell asleep. The man who was on me when I first fell asleep appears to be missing, Something smells delightful, but I can't make out what it is. It smells like home.

Upon recognizing the scent, I rise to investigation mode. Not sure if I should wear clothes or not, I slip on a pajama shirt and some boxer shorts, which may or may not belong to me. A faint sizzling noise breaches my ears. It sounds like home.

I round the bedroom corner on Fletchling feet, searching for my moment to pounce. Zidane, now visibly consumed by the art of making tiny pancakes, takes no notice of my approach. The Pyroar is a fierce and noble creature, but as she stalks down her prey, she becomes completely silent. She edges ever closer, contemplating the kill like an insurance salesman with nothing better left in her life. The queen of the hunt makes her move, firmly grappling her victim from behind. This elicits a shout, followed by a series of unfortunate circumstances that can best be described as Pancake to the Face.

“HOTHOTHOTHOTHOTHOTHOTHOT-”

Zidane pulls the silver dollar off my face, leaving it to the floor for its transgressions. He drags me to the sink and asks where the washcloths are. In just moments, he has a cold one on my head, and I can't help but feel humiliated by this whole situation, yet relieved that he was willing to do this for me. The pancakes, the washcloth, and let's not forget what happened just the night before: just what are these the makings of?

“I suppose we can be many things,” he starts, bring to my attention that I've been thinking out loud. “But what do you want to be?”

“What do you mean?”

“Weren't you just asking about the makings of something? I guess, what I want to know is, what do you want this to become?”

Blood rushes to my face as thoughts ranging from becoming friends-and-a-half to bearing his screaming demon seed fill my inner eye. At this point, I've toyed with thoughts of all of these things, with frequency of this toying ranging most greatly at the former end of the scale. But just what does he want? What if I say the wrong thing? What if I say something that feels right in the heat of the moment, that I come to regret later? In a bit of a snap decision, I make the call that seems the least likely to be regrettable to me, as well as the least likely to be too much for him to handle.

“Don't get me wrong, I've never done this before, this – the kind of thing where people just meet and connect and – I'm just not very experienced, I should say, in these sorts of matters.”

“Go on,” he says, his eyes burning holes through mine. At this precise moment, I remember the color of his eyes for the first time since childhood.

“Has anyone ever told you that your eyes look like tiny almonds?”

He laughs, which I think is a good sign. “No, but frankly, I don't think most people bother looking into my eyes. They see the rest of me and steer clear. It's curious to me, what draws us together. I can't put my finger on it.”

“I would say that what draws us together is a healthy dose of nostalgia and a potentially quite sinful quantity of something else entirely.” He smiles at the word _sinful._ If he's anything like me, he doesn't really see these sorts of things as evil of worthy of damnation, but as he's something like me, he finds the notion amusing.

“Back to what I was thinking earlier,” he returns, pausing for a moment, as if reaching for something that isn't there. “What are you looking to be – you know – with me?”

“I think we shouldn't matriculate too quickly into higher notions of human relationships,” I start, trying to act sophisticated about this, “but that we should definitely – that is, if you wish to – continue.”

A silence falls between that can best be described as the kind of communicative void that develops when two people refuse to say anything lewd for a while, but then suddenly realized that they engaged each other sexually just the night before, which most humans consider to be a lewdness icebreaker, at the least. Zidane is the first to speak.

“Continue?” he wonders aloud. He's baiting me to say it first, so I suppose I will.

“Sex, Zidane,” I reveal wistfully, trying not the get lost in reverie of the night before. “I would like us to continue having sex. And, for your sake, diversify our activities, of course.”

“Just what kind of activities are you trying to ask me to participate in, Margeaux?” He needs to go deeper. It must be in his blood, the way he always drills me for more.

“Well, for starters, I could always … um, reciprocate.”

This sets off something in his eyes. Oh god, what am I getting myself into? “I'd like that, if we're speaking on the same terms. But before we get around to any sort of reciprocation of anything, I want to be absolutely clear on something.”

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong, I just – I want to know what we should call each other. I may be a couple years older than you, but I'm hardly any more experienced in these things than you are. Are we boyfriend and girlfriend? Are we lovers? Are we just friends? Are we at any of these levels, attempting to ascend to higher ones, or are we intended to stay at the same level, continuing indefinitely. I can assure you that I've considered many varying levels of these sorts of things, and while all of them seem appealing to me, I'm not sure what either you or I am actually, decently ready for.”

“Friends,” I start. “but with just a pinch of this _lover_ business added in. I want us to have fun, of course, but I like things … passionate.”

“Was what happened last night sufficiently passionate?”

I stand over him now. “For a night,” I toy with him. “But as the nights unfold, things just might have to become more intense.”

He stutters over the concept of _intensity_ for a moment, and I cease this noise with a kiss. Returning the gesture, he establishes a link between us, one that continues for a short moment, before being cut off by pressing concerns, or more specifically, concerns pressing against my thigh. But first, something else must happen.

It's time to eat breakfast.

 


	4. Maximum Sexuality Overdrive Galactic Yes; You Know, That One Musical or Whatever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Think of this chapter as the furtive glance she gave you on the subway one morning by accident. It's not much, but there's more to come.

We finish breakfast quickly, not so much that we gorge ourselves, but enough that it's apparent what Zidane wants more than pancakes. Even working as a nurse, if you're going to be hit on, you're going to first have to don the pink hair, so for me, I've never had the notion even occur to me that someone might want me in this way. Watching him lay waste to his culinary creation, I find myself lost in thoughts of the way he touched me the night before, that carnal expression of total desire, that way I felt his lust connect with mine, assembling to form a canopy of fruit-bearing trees. One bite of these delicate fruits, of course, and you belong to your urges forever. I've taken my sample of these things, and frankly, I want even more..

. He starts to speak up after finishing the last of his meal, but I put a finger to his lips. Now is not the time for words. I take him by the hand and lead him off the bed where we ate and into the adjoining bathroom. I let go of his hand, rushing to the far end, where I throw open the shower curtain with a certain amount of pizzazz. By now, he has shorts on, and his prior condition no longer stands, but I intend to remedy these things. I turn around so he sees my back as I take off my shirt; bending over, I pull down what I'm beginning to realize are his boxer shorts, making sure that he gets a good view of what he wants. I wave around in the air for a moment, as if to draw his attention further. Something snaps within him: Zidane resumes nudity within seconds. He sidles over to me, both hands taking in what they can of my ass. Before he can even think about advancing any further, I snap back up, taking my precious resources with me as I jump into the shower.

He follows me in, kissing me without letting me turn around. I can tell what he wants, but on my end, it just isn't time for that, not yet. Soon we're both entranced in the act of holding one another close while not-quite-scalding water makes its way down our entangled bodies. I can feel him against my skin, harder and harder, almost as hot as the water. Before my plan can come to fruition, I need to lay some ground. I start with a kiss on the cheek, as if to taunt him for his previous reactions to such paltry things, advancing downward at a pace that feels natural to me, slow and steady. His body is mysteriously hairless, and even though before I would have said this wasn't my thing, something about the smoothness of his skin and the way he buckles under my touch makes me feel so powerful.

I descend to his chest, arms around his waist, leaving playful licks on his nipples. This gets some noise out of him, sounds that I commit to memory. I mimic him from the night before, leaving kisses all the down, ever lower, until I reach a stopping point. Here I am, for the first time ever, on my knees, face-to-face with a man's penis. Due to lack of experience, I'm not actually sure if this is a large penis or not, but it is intimidating nevertheless. Trying not to hesitate, I take a lick just under the tip. I then press myself to the base, licking upwards. Not entirely sure what to do, I continue like this for a while. Worried that I might not be doing enough, I decide it's time to change things up.

It becomes increasingly apparent, as I begin a slow bobbing motion, that the shaft of his penis takes a slight curve to my left. It also becomes apparent that this sort of thing is incredibly difficult to do without drowning, in the shower. Water beats down fast over his body, and it's taking everything I have not to inhale some of it. After a short time, I become exasperated. I release him, trying to rise up from my watery grave. My plan has changed shape, but there is hope that it's not entirely ruined.

I maneuver behind him, which takes some time, unfortunately. With my body pressed against his back, I can't see my way around, but I can feel up from his thighs, and – there it is. I begin stroking him, eventually taking on a rhythm. Occasionally, I feel a twitch of compliance. Zidane starts to make small noises, which is a good sign. Something about the way he bends to my will makes me feel awfully important. I feel like the jailer of his own personal orgasmic fiend, just like that I danced with the night before. I control what he feels, and I control when he feels it. I try to match the speed of my touch to the level of desperation in his voice, accelerating steadily. Zidane bends forward, pressing his hands to the wall. I speed up even further, driving him to his limits. Feeling him against my waist, I realize that if I were as equipped as him, I could take him from behind at this very moment. The thought pleases me, but something soon pleases me even more. He starts to cry out uncontrollably, not too loud, per se, but with much more abandon than before. With every pulse of his member he soaks my hand more, and I can't say I dislike the feel of it. Once he's done, I take my hand away, briefly tasting the substance clinging to it, then washing away the rest. It's not as bitter as I had expected; instead it's more salty, even a little sweet. Whatever it is, it's conveniently intoxicating, and I find myself soon lost in reveries about consuming more as time goes on.

He stands tall again, turning around to kiss me once more. We lose ourselves in each other, becoming further and further entwined. Somehow we end up on the bed again, aggressively taking turns at one another. Not completely dry from the shower, we curl up together under the covers, letting the evaporating water essentially steam us into greater levels of heat. In this chrysalis of warmth and skin, the feeling of his body against my hips, I can finally relax. Zidane seems to feel the same way, and before I can even say anything to him, he's out like a dead pixel. I am soon to join him, my eyes growing heavier with each lowering breath.

We part ways soon after he awakes, neither of us particularly eager to get on with our lives, but necessity bearing over us. He leaves with a smile on his face, one that I hope to see more of in the coming days. I put some clothes on, just a t-shirt and some pajama pants. Settling down, I decide to let Francois and Azura out of their Pokeballs, to give them some time to be free again. The rest of my day flashes before me in a vision, and I realize it is now my sacred duty to surf the worldwide web and eat cheese puffs while trying not to think about the fact that I just had sex with Zidane – twice. Before I can accomplish any not-thinking, my mind drifts to the way he tastes on my lips, so delightfully under my thumb, so critically weakened by his affinity for my touch. Anyhow, it's time to do nothing instead.

After reading a few blog posts about the burgeoning concerns about this Team Flare shindig, I make up my mind that I probably shouldn't walk anywhere alone at night. It looks like they're all over Kalos, yet nowhere in sight, all at the same time. Cheese dust accumulates on my fingers as I continue reading, and eventually, I start to lick it off. Being so recently exposed to more sensual kinds of licking, my mind floats over to the deep end immediately, and I'm thinking of Zidane's body once more. Sex with him wasn't anything I'd expected it to be: that is to say, it wasn't rough or difficult, so much as it just flowed naturally, like honey dripping from a Combee hive. I thought he would be so much more aggressive, but in the end, it almost felt like I was taking the lead on things more than he was. It just felt so right to be with him, so warm and pristine. I want to wash myself in the waters of his affections again, but alas, he just left maybe an hour ago. It's at this point that I realize I've been touching myself. There's a kind of yearning tingle beneath my pants that I just can't seem to calm. With every caress it simply grows, rises, becomes more intricate in its enslavement of my thoughts. I think of Zidane, of course, but other thoughts come to mind. Thoughts that have never crossed my mind come to mind, to be exact.

It's time to use the internet properly.

I'd always heard from my friends years back that the internet had essentially one purpose: mass quantities of pornography, at arm's reach, at all times. Never in my life have I even thought to tap into such things, but as I find myself incrementally aroused yet decreasingly satisfied, it suddenly feels like the right thing to do. My first search is simple: “free porn.” Dissatisfied by most of what I find, I continue with “free porn that doesn't suck.” This turns up mostly a slew of blowjob videos, including several instructional ones, which I bookmark for later perusal. Finally, I run a search to see what the top twenty porn sites are, and this is where I hit the goldmine. At number eighteen, a website simply called Goddesses, a pay-what-you-want compilation of collections of erotic video game fan art: this is more my speed.

I start by browsing some classic characters, building my way up to the more obscure references. Some of the pictures are of various male protagonists having their way with the heroines and/or damsels in various levels of distress, but some of them are simply eroticized portraits of the women by themselves, which I come to enjoy more than the ones more concerned with screwing. There's something about the way these artists draw their faces, something about the way it feels like they're gazing into me while I engage in unspeakable acts, something about the way their bodies come alive in the my inner eye that draws me in beyond the point of no return. I check out the name on one of these pieces; she goes by ImpossiblyEgotistical. On her profile on Goddesses, there are links to several other websites, one of which has just a series of numbers and letters a URL, “134793gg69420.com,” to be precise. It's pretty easy to tell where some of these numbers come from, I note to myself, stifling laughter because I'm a dork. And because I'm such a dork, I decide to click on this link in particular. It loads for a minute, and I find myself shocked at what turns up moments later.

Titled “Lucretia and I,” the works stand for themselves before me. It's all nude photography of some woman, presumably ImpossiblyEgotistical, and of a Gardevoir, presumably Lucretia. Some of the photos are fairly innocent and demure, but as I scroll down the page, her works become increasingly lewd. I stop on a picture of Lucretia holding this woman's face to her crotch, perhaps appearing to be amid the throes of orgasm. The look in Lucretia's eyes catches me somehow, and it's at this point that I realize that I haven't stopped masturbating. If anything, my pace has quickened. Her eyes, like rubies, watering just so as she reaches the very kind of feeling I'm striving to achieve myself, here and now. I plead with my body to feel something, and by the whims of these things, I find that it obliges me. I curl up into a ball, falling onto my side as my body trembles under pulsar-like waves of pleasure. I stretch out, and the feeling grows, just for a moment, then immediately dying out. I lie on the couch, listless, wishing that this could have lasted me longer.

I look up from my activities after hearing a kind of shuffling sound, only to have to come to terms with the now apparent fact that Francois has been watching me, potentially this whole time. He slinks away when I catch a glimpse of him, giving me a quirky, almost intrigued look. Upon realizing the situation, I almost immediately burst into tears, humiliated, ashamed, and unsure what to do next. This isn't like me. There's nothing particularly wrong with trying to please myself, but I've definitely gone too far. I can't believe I've screwed up this much. I can't believe that I did what I just did. I can't believe just how much I liked it.

 


	5. Last Lest Lost Lust; Strategic Mitosis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one. Prepare your anus.

It's hard for me to define exactly what it is that makes feel so alone lately. It's been a couple of days since I've seen Zidane anywhere, and neither of us have made the effort to connect by phone. It feels, at times, as if he's done with me. Or maybe I'm done with him. Work goes slowly, and my nights are filled with idle nothingness. I can't seem to wrap my head around just what causes me to keep stalling talking to him, but I can't seem to fight that urge either. There's a thick air in my apartment, full of regret and disdain. The events of two nights before, when I saw those images, when I couldn't force myself to stop, (when I didn't want myself to stop) they haunt me.

I've spent my life out of high school healing Pokemon, taking care of them, and the thought of seeing them as anything sexual feels like betraying that. I'm supposed to help Pokemon live better lives, but something about what I saw makes me feel as if I'm a part of something that takes advantage of Pokemon. Surely, like humans, they have the same sexual urges, but it doesn't seem right to exploit these urges by making Pokemon do sexual things for humans. Part of me, in the back of my mind, keeps reminding me that Pokemon are fully sentient, capable of making their own decisions, and also capable of roasting anyone they don't want near them, but on some level, I can't help but assume the worst: that somehow, the Gardevoir I saw was not giving way to a natural lust between herself and another, but instead, was acting out of fear of the repercussions of not doing what the humans around her wanted her to do. Gardevoir may be hyper-intelligent and capable of defending itself, but it's also a fiercely loyal Pokemon, and there's no telling what one might submit herself to do out of fear that their trainer would abandon them.

This is all really heavy. I take a break from my thoughts and chug a glass of water. It makes me feel sick after I drink it, which tells me I'm somewhat dehydrated, or something. Either way, I should probably drink more water, eat fewer pretzels, etc. for the time being. I have no business stress eating my way through this, half-naked on the couch, watching the news ramble on speculating about Team Flare, which is, of course, the new thing to talk about. I feel as if it's best to ignore them entirely; they obviously want attention, or they wouldn't dress like that. It feels like it's just a matter of time before some punk trainer busts up their whole operation and sends them into media obscurity once more, just as these things are wont to happen. I drink another glass of water, and this time, I feel a little better.

I sit back down on the couch, flipping through the channels on the TV on full speed. Eventually I come across, by accident, some sort of soap opera sex scandal show or something, and for a moment, I remember that familiar yearning in my pants. I have no business masturbating right now, I tell myself, beginning to do so anyway. The man on TV and someone I believe is his wife are arguing, but soon, it turns into passion. They start kissing the way I remember kissing Zidane, holding each other the way I want to be held. I speed myself maybe halfway to the end before she crosses my mind again, her piercing red eyes locked in picture-perfect ecstasy. I stop for a moment, trying to start again, never able to break the image from my head. I give up, ceasing entirely, finally deciding to reach for my phone. It finally seems like the right thing to do.

Sure, once I tell him what I've done, he's probably going to just hate me, but I can't stop this gut feeling that maybe he'll understand, that maybe Zidane will have some kind of mysterious, sage advice that will help me get over this predicament. He might just stutter around and answer me in riddles, but right now, even that seems better than nothing. Too afraid to say it over the phone, I send him a text.

_I have a confession to make_

_I'm not comfortable talking about it_

_So I'm sending you this_

Hours pass. The minutes feel like days, and the hours feel like weeks. It's getting close to midnight. Maybe he's asleep already? What if he just doesn't reply to this message? Sure, it's a little dramatic, but anyone would at least send something back, right? My thought are interrupted when Francois nudges my leg. Was he watching me touch myself this time, too? The thought of it sends a shiver up my spine, then back down, then back up again. It's like I can never be certain where he is. He seems like he wants me to take him outside, but it's so late, I have to tell him no. He sulks away in unwilling understanding, opting to lie down right beside – but not on – his bed on the floor, as if in protest. I throw him a cheese puff, and he eats it fervently. He loves those even more than me, it seems. I should probably stop giving him human food, let alone trashy human food. Just as this thought crosses my mind, my phone vibrates between my legs. It hadn't even occurred to me just how this would feel, considering that I'd just half-masturbated; I just normally leave my phone there. The text from Zidane reads,

_Sorry we haven't spoken. I've been nervous to talk to you, is all. Feel free to talk to me about anything you need. I promise I don't judge. Sorry, again._

I send him an immediate reply, which is probably too soon to reply considering how long he waited to talk to me, but regardless, I do it.

_Have you ever done anything really stupid before_

_Like, really stupid_

_Monumentally idiotic_

I've been more poetic, but I just want to warn him before I say this. I take deep breaths, counting to four on each inhale and each exhale. I'm freaking out, honestly. He replies,

_Yeah, I've done stupid things. Everyone on the planet has done something stupid before. It's probably best that you spill the beans before you explode. You know how it goes._

Okay, he starts out understanding. This is good. Breathe deep, Margeaux. Just rip off the bandage and pray.

_I was ….perusing some things online last night when I came across this_

_1_ _34793gg69420.com/members/d6/impossiblyegotistical_

_I can't get these images out of my head_

_What do I do_

Just a few minutes of agony pass before he replies.

_Am I supposed to be surprised? You took me to Cafe Introversion when we first met, after all. There's no shame in this kind of thing, honestly. Even Lance was into this stuff. Hell, he kept trying to get me into it._

What. What. What.

_What does Introversion have to do with this stuff_

_And I do feel ashamed …_

_And Lance?! I never would have expected that_

He waits slightly longer before replying.

_Shit, I thought you knew. Cafe Introversion houses one of the world's largest underground sex clubs, devoted exclusively to people and their Pokemon. It's called 'Mon Amour. It's like a hidden grotto for Pokefuckers. And seriously, Margeaux, I know it feels weird when you're first exposed to these sorts of things, but it all makes sense over time. Do you need me to come over? I can talk you through this, if you need._

Oh my god. A hidden grotto for Pokefuckers, right underneath my nose, all my life? This changes some shit. I've seen people in Introversion hanging out with their Pokemon before. Could they all be like this?

_Please come over …_

_I'm sorry for all of this_

_I'll make this up to you, somehow_

He sends one last message before I see him in person.

_I'll be there ASAP. Just hang tight, OK? And you don't have to be sorry for anything. Lots of people go through this kind of stuff. Everything's going to be okay._

I sigh deeply, preparing myself mentally for the coming storm. It's time to clean this place up.

Just as I'm throwing away the last bag of trash, I hear a knock on the door. I open it without looking, and Zidane immediately embraces me. I can't fight blushing, not knowing that this would be his first reaction. He closes the door and finds his way to the chair across from the couch. He asks if it's okay to sit there, and I ask him if he wants the tea I just made. I pour him a mug of it, and he relaxes thoroughly in my chair.

“So let's start from the top,” he announces. “How did this even begin?”

I explain everything from finding Goddesses to clicking links to other sites to being unable to look away while I finished myself off. He seems almost happy about this last detail. I think he's enjoying hearing about this a little too much, honestly.

“Just know that no matter what, I'm not judging you. I have no room to judge, really. But here,” he says, standing up. He takes out a shiny pink crystal of sorts, dangling from a necklace. “This might seem weird, but after I discovered that Lance was into this kind of thing, he gave me this. Now I'm giving it to you.”

I take it instantly. I'm … drawn to it. It feels warm in my hands. “Just what is it?”

“It's called a Heart Stone. It's an extremely rare and extremely useful material. Simply holding it close and concentrating on it can allow you to hear the innermost desires of both people and Pokemon around you. It's one of the primary ways Lance and others like him communicate with their Pokemon. Basically, it's used to establish consent, which I'm sure is one of the first things you're worried about. It's what everyone freaks out about when they first get into these things.”

Not even thinking, I put it around my neck. Holding it in one hand, I pick up a glimmer of a sound from Zidane's direction.

_Right now might not be the right time, but I haven't seen her in days. Don't get a boner. Don't get a boner. Don't get a boner. Don't –_

I take my hand off the Heart Stone, and I start to smile. “Is that really what you're thinking right now?” I ask him as he sits back down.

“Honesty can be a double-edged sword, Margeaux. Remember that even though the Stone can reveal peoples' desires, sometimes people themselves do not desire their own desires.”

“Are you saying that you don't desire to desire me right now?” I whine. “And what about Pokemon?”

“They're more straightforward. If a Pokemon wants you, the Stone knows: that's all there is to it. And it's not that I don't – you know – desire you right now, I just feel like you might not be a good place to be doing anything with me right now. You seemed upset when you were texting me, is all.”

I invite him to sit on the couch next to me. We turn to face each other, and I look him in the eyes. “I mean, I was upset, but this gift – a Heart Stone – weirdly enough, it seems like just what I needed to calm my nerves. Just touching it fills me with a strange warmth. I feel calmer now.”

He kisses me softly. “I'm glad I could help.”

“You know, there are other things you could do to help,” I whisper in his ear, clutching the Heart Stone. His thoughts appear to be a blur of expletives of names of sex positions. This reaction, although extreme, in my eyes, is good. For a second, I could swear I hear something else, another voice far lewder than even Zidane's. I seem to have missed it. It must have been someone walking by the door, or something.

Zidane reaches for the Stone around my neck, grasping it firmly. There's no telling what the Stone could have told him, but he smiles, pushing me down on the couch just like all those nights before. Being with him revitalizes me, gives me the sting my life had so recently been lacking. So many familiar sensations wash over me, from the feel of his battle suit brushing against me as we make out, to the way he bites me in all the right places. This feels right. This feels somehow simultaneously torrid and serene.

Soon, the situation breaks for the former over the latter. His hands travel downward, while he never breaks eye contact. He pauses for a moment, again clutching to the Heart Stone with one hand while exploring under my pants with the other. He parts my lips with his index and ring fingers, searching for a way in with his middle. Once he hits his mark, I find myself overcome by this new sensation. It hurts a little, being touched like this for the first time, but once he settles in around what I can only assume, based on the new, splendorous vibrations coursing up my spine, is my G-spot, I find myself far more concerned with the good aspects of what's going on. I've heard about this kind of thing, but I've never bothered to experiment with it myself. Having someone to do it for me makes it all the better, I muse, waxing erotic in the warmth of of his touch.

Letting go of the Heart Stone around my neck, he starts to makes his way down. I remember this, recalling just how wonderful it was the first time. Of course, this time, he's utilizing both his mouth and his hand to please me. This level of devotion to my body borders on worship, the way he does it. He's a former warrior on a pilgrimage to join a monastic society of scholars, ones who exclusively study the female anatomy and all of its intricacies. He's no sex god, as I would like to believe that even this is not the final plateau upon which the Laurels of Greatest Sex rest, but perhaps he is a demigod, borne of the lust between two entirely separate domains of reality. An all-too-welcome heat begins to build up from within, just like the first time he did this for me. Unlike that time, however, Zidane spends much less time freeing it from its sepulchral state. I dance eagerly for the beast before me, temporarily offering my mind in tribute. But this time, even as I am lost already in a swirling firestorm, a sleeping giant awakes in the distance, looming over even the mountains beyond him. I become enthralled by his eyes like molten gold, overtaken by lusty spasms laced with the hints of that fire before, dying but not yet gone.

Once Zidane grinds to a halt, I find myself only somewhat aware of my surroundings. Still lightly under the influence of this foreign feeling, I kiss him, not even fazed by tasting myself on his tongue. In this euphoric haze, I whisper in his ear things I could never have said were I still the same person from even a few days ago. My demands of him, falling in line with things he too desires, leave him lying back on the couch, waiting. I stand up to finish removing my clothes, noting that his eyes never leave my body as I do so. I bend forward to wrestle with his zipper, and after some finagling, I grant him the freedom his lower half so desperately requires.

I waste no time in climbing on top of him, giving him a single kiss before I raise up. Holding him in one hand, balancing with the other, I make my attempts at putting it in. First, it slips forward, but then it slips backward, almost going somewhere I'm just not ready for it to go. Taking a deep breath, I focus and bear down with even greater precision. In one swift motion, just the tip is inside. I rest there for a moment, then ease myself lower, just fractions of an inch at a time. If I'm to get through this without bleeding on him, I need to do this gently. Zidane doesn't really seem to know what to do with his hands, so I take charge of placing them, one on my waist, one under my butt. This gives me just the support I need to continue my descent. He lets a moan or two escape as I begin moving more. Soon I build up a rhythm, heaving further onto him with every thrust. The pain of taking something larger than his finger is now eclipsed by the pleasure of having him, burning hot and twitching in eagerness.

Time passes by in a blur of sweat and grinding, and soon I find myself taking the longest strokes to cover as much of him as I can with each passing second. He appears to be in as much of a displaced mental state as I am, both of us struggling indefinitely towards our respective giants on the horizon. I wonder what his looks like. Does it have ram horns, black fur, and a single, voided eye, or is it more like mine, some kind of mechanical behemoth set out to destroy the world with the power of sex? Do they fight to see who will go first, or do they simply wait in peace for the fresh meat to arrive?

I can feel the illuminating gaze of my calamitous friend, warming me from the inside out, spreading like food coloring in water through my body. In my attempts to speed up, I notice that Zidane is becoming increasingly flustered, ever louder in the cute little noises he makes. He starts to thrust slightly from beneath me, letting me do just a little less of the work. As he does this, he manages to hit some rather interesting spots. I take further interest in them in guiding him onto them. The time is near.

“Margeaux, I – I,” he stammers, trying to get out those words I've been wanting to hear.

“I know,” I tease him. “Don't hold back on me.”

He surges rhythmically, quickly, violently, into the furthest depths of my insides. I find myself melting from the feeling of it, losing control and speeding straight over the edge. I never thought all that cheesy stuff about simultaneous cumming was even a reality, let alone such a delicious reality. I slow down, absorbing every last minuscule particle of this feeling. It's deep and far-reaching, and it's starting to make me unable to stay upright. I collapse onto his chest, still caught in the thick of it all.

“Can we stay like this for a while?” I mumble.

“For as long as you want,” he replies, much more coherently.

I'm not sure exactly how much time passed as we laid naked on the couch. We were mostly silent, but this was broken up by the occasional giggle or sigh of relief. Eventually, though, it's time for me to stand up again, resume being clothed, and go about life. It's awfully late, after all, and I should be getting to sleep. Zidane and I make our goodbyes, mutually knowing this certainly isn't the last we'll be seeing of each other. He gives me that same coy smile as he walks away, waving slightly, and my heart swirls in content. Tonight has been good.

The door finally shut, my time with Zidane finally over, I slink back into the bedroom to just go ahead and sleep. I eschew the clothes I just put on, throwing myself onto the mattress with nothing short of a harrumph. Francois, who I'd locked in the bedroom to avoid any more instances of him watching me do lewd things, jumps onto the bed with me, nuzzling my back, settling in to sleep with me, as he sometimes does. Normally, I try to get him to sleep in his Pokemon bed because he's going to cover me with silver Eevee hairs to the point that I look like a Yeti, but I'm too tired to protest his presence. As I pull up the covers, I notice that he's starting to nudge me. Does he want food, now? He better not want to go outside. I muster up the strength to grab him some Pokechow, but he completely ignores it. Knowing all too well the look on his face, I start to search the fridge for people food. Eventually, I find a week-old half of a cupcake with a little pink heart on it, from a birthday party for one of the nurses at the Pokemon Center, and I figure this will do. I hope he likes it. I may be giving him old food, but I still love him.

He eats enthusiastically, starting with the icing, then just barely nibbling on the cake itself. After he finishes it, he starts to shiver. Oh my god. Have I done something wrong? He doesn't seem like he can move. Is it because I gave him an old cupcake? My concerns give way to a combination of excitement and shock as his fur begins to radiate a white light. Soon the light overtakes his entire body, and I find myself unable to see at all. Waves of mysterious energy burst forth, knocking me off my feet. I've seen plenty of Pokemon evolve out in the field, but never this dramatically, nor this suddenly.

A pair of ominous red eyes is the first thing I can make out past the light. They stare daggers into me, and I find myself afraid. When the light clears, however, his eyes are much more calm, and they're full of little stars! He looks … happy. I don't think I've ever seen him this happy. Francois starts running in circles, chasing his new tail, flailing his feelers wildly. It looks like I'm now the proud owner of a Sylveon, and quite the energetic one, too.

He jumps up at me, and I barely manage to catch him. He's so much bigger now. He stares into my eyes with those deep ruby reds, and I find myself lost in thought about how cute he is. His eyes almost remind me of – no, dash that thought immediately. Immediately. Just cuddle your fluffy friend and relax, I tell myself, finding it harder and harder to shake the thought.

It's clearly time to go to bed.

I jump back into bed, covering myself. Soon after, I hear the door creak. Francois, ignoring his bed once more, has decided to climb into bed with me. Apparently, he can open doors now, which just makes him ever more difficult to reign in. There are worse fates, I note at this time, than having to sleep next to something so fuzzy and warm. He does his best to be big spoon, and I find myself drifting off to sleep almost instantly.

Awaking with a start, I sit up straight. Francois is still next to me. Things are fine. But something feels off. Something hasn't been settled yet. I try to get back to sleep, but I just can't. It's 4:30 in the morning, and I'm dying to get some rest. Soon, Francois wakes up, and he resumes nudging me, just like before. I go into the kitchen and sit down next to his food bowl, silently demanding that he eat. He pushes the bowl to the side, instead drawing closer to me. He nudges my side, whining. Hoping that he just wants attention, I start to pet him. Still somewhat unused to them, I avoid his feelers.

But his feelers don't avoid me. One starts to ghost up and down my spine, another wrapping around my waist, the other two just kind of … flailing, like earlier. I sigh, making my way back to bed, followed by his never-ending, ticklish onslaught. I start to laugh, giggling furiously as he astutely takes note of all my weak spots. After a few minutes of this, he grows tired, sidling up to me and laying down back-to-back. I bid him good night, and we assume a companionable silence.

I wake up again, Francois's feelers draped over me once more. I push them aside as I get up, which causes him to wake up with me. His feelers are soft, and kind of heavy, I notice. I wonder if they could lift me up. Francois, nudging my back once more, jumps to the ground, performing what looks like a hand-stand on only one of his ribbons. I applaud him for this, and he comes back to the ground. He jumps up and down a few times, higher each time, finishing off with a front flip. I clap for this, too, and he seems pleased, but he comes up to nudge me again. What could he possibly want now? Desperate to know, hoping this idea will be the last I have to go through to figure out what he wants, I clutch at the Heart Stone with both hands.

I sit still, aghast at what I hear. No. No, no, no. It's the voice from earlier, the one that so briefly overtook Zidane's. I hear it much more strongly now, and it has clear desires. I can't un-know what I know, I think to myself, pacing furiously by the couch now. He wants to do things to me that I simply shouldn't allow a Pokemon to do! But – and as usual, there's a but – I can't help but see in his eyes what I saw in Lucretia's, Maybe I have a thing for Fairy Types, after all. There's something about them, now that I think about it. The way they move is so cute, and the way they sound is so beautiful. The more I think about the things Francois's inner desires told me, the more that I realize that I want to be a part of that. But should I take part in something like this? Obviously, I can, and it wouldn't be breaking any personal rules, in a way, since the Heart Stone clearly tells me what he wants. But surely there are laws against this kind of thing. There have to be. Sure, I've never heard of them, but ignorance is no excuse! There's no way I can keep this a secret. People will find out. I'll be shamed for the rest of my life. I'll have to live as a hermit in the mountains.

Then again, is it all that different? I have no friends except Zidane, who was gung-ho enough about my “problem” that he enabled me to take it further with this Stone. I have no real life outside of doing a menial job anyone can do with only a few weeks of training. I'm bored every night, waiting for excitement to fall in my lap. Perhaps, I muse, now is the time to make my own fate. What do I have to lose, besides a job I hate and a life that's barely worth living? Steeling myself for what's to come, I go back into my room, where I've left Francois. I fiddle with the Heart Stone one last time before opening the door.

 _I just want her to come back. I hope I haven't hurt her feelings,_ I hear. I will have none of it. If I don't follow the feelings that he and I feel, neither of us will be happy tonight, if ever. It's time.

I fling open the door, standing in the light where he can see me in full view. Francois's ears perk up, ribbons dancing. Slinking over to him, I lay back down on the bed, wearing nothing but the Heart Stone, my own heart racing. Francois climbs on top of me, placing one paw on the crystal. He nods in understanding. He walks up and down my body, as if searching for the ideal place to be. His feelers become frantic, excited at this new opportunity. Two of them trail down to tease my breasts, and the others ensnare my legs to spread them. As he walks down to greet what lies between them, I catch a short glance of what appears to be a marbled, blue and pink cock. I've never even seen Francois's before, let alone in his evolved form. It's wide and heftily knotted at the base, tapering all the way to the tip, where a single drop can be witnessed. He turns around to face me, using his ribbons to raise my ass into the air for him. In what I believe is foreplay, he begins to gently bite my thighs, moving closer after every motion. Soon, he's licking around my vulva, sniffing intently. Each lick finds me further trembling at the thought of all the things he wants to do with me, not out of fear, but in anticipation. He bites my labia softly, which forces a sharp cry out of me. Continuing his exploration of my body, Francois finally hoists himself over me.

I'm being mounted, I think to myself, as he rubs against me. Within seconds, he has slipped into me, and he begins humping aggressively, all the way down to just above the knot. He may not be as big as Zidane, but the way he moves is far more primal, more instinctual. I lose hope of staying quiet, moaning out to him all the specifics of my enraptured state.

Francois succeeds in pushing in the knot, giving way to a scream on my part. It's so much thicker than the rest of him, I can barely take it. With every time it reenters my body, I become further lost in the miasma beginning to form in my mind. He removes one feeler from my chest, placing it just below my clitoris. It moves as he moves, and I start to lose any sense of control I ever had over this situation. Normally, I like to be in control. I want to lead and have Zidane follow. But with Francois, I am helpless to my desire, stuck in a whirlwind of unimaginable sex. This kind of act, frenzied and wild, surges a kind of pleasure through me that can only be obtained by giving up on a part of one's humanity. I was so worried before about these kinds of things, but one thing is for sure now: rough sex is amazing.

Gentle lovemaking can be one thing, and it certainly has its perks, but right now, I'm being taken into an underworld of my own desires by a beast of wild abandon. I start to feel the rising action, and Francois can seem only to accelerate further in his movements. My hips give way to compulsive thrusting, my legs quivering, toes curling, whole body feeling like it's compressing in preparation for a massive expansion into another realm of existence. I feel myself cumming, and I feel only that and the motions of Francois inside me.

But it doesn't stop there. He just keeps going, pressing further into me, trying to reach his own orgasm. My pleasure only skyrockets as he continues, pushing as deep into me as he can, simultaneously moving as quickly as he can. Something as bestial and primal as him can be felt swelling in my gut. There's no way, I think to myself, but here it is. I know myself to be cumming once again, ever more intensely than just before, and this time, it came to me so much faster. As this happens, Francois begins to slow down, thrusting harder than ever.

Finally, he stops, all the way inside. As he fills me up, I feel the knot expand to twice its girth. After a few minutes of frantic panting, he tries to pull out, but I stop him. He'll only hurt one or both of us if he tries now. So we lie together, basking in the final shreds of euphoria left to us by our respective climaxes. I could get used to this kind of thing, I muse.

Oh, no. Oh, god, no. I take a look at the clock. I'm already late for work.

 


	6. Chapter Number Gay; A Veritable Shitload of First Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smut only increases as you go further.

Work goes by straightforwardly. I was late by about an hour, but no one really seemed to notice. Every so often, I find a wayward blue hair stuck to my clothes, and I'm doing my best to brush them off, but I just keep finding more. I can still remember the smell of last night. I can still feel things that I probably shouldn't be feeling while I'm handling other people's Pokemon. Unable to stop thinking about all sorts of inappropriate things, I find myself locked in a spell of mindless work, just shuffling about until it'll all be over. There are rumors that the power to Prism Tower will be restored soon, and that's just about all I can remember from my distracted conversations with my coworkers.

Once I get off, I find myself lost in the winds of uncertainty once more. I could go back to my apartment and let Francois do unspeakable things to me, or I could go just about anywhere else, and maybe live a little outside of my … escapades. I decide to go sit in Cafe Soleil, as the thought of Introversion has been corrupted for me. Of course, that's not to say that I don't want to go back, so much as to say that it doesn't feel right to go at this precise moment. Maybe later, I tell myself between sips of chai. Maybe later. Give things some time, mull over the possibilities. If there's anyone who secretly enjoys playing the waiting game, it's me.

I don't really have anyone to hang out with, so I begin to feel uncomfortable just sitting around. At length, I decide to shoot Zidane a message. I send him a text that accurately depicts my life and state of mind,

_I'm bored_

_Please entertain me_

_Sex later?_

An uncharacteristically swift reply hits my phone.

_Same here. You can find me at my hotel. Sex later._

A giddiness sets in at the thought of screwing him yet again. There's something about him that will just never get old.

At the front doors of Hotel Richissime, I find myself intimidated. I'd never been in here at all before, let alone to meet someone. I don't exactly know how this is supposed to work. Stuck between boredom and the prospect of being thrown out of the hotel for not knowing the proper way to go about seeing Zidane, I decide to text him again.

_Should I go inside_

_I don't really know how this works_

_… can you come get me_

After just a couple of seconds, I get his message back.

_I'll be down. Don't worry about a thing; just wait outside._

Just a few minutes later, he emerges from the front doors, a big, goofy smile on his face.

“What's up with you? I should hope you aren't making fun of me. Adulting is hard.”

“Well, I-” he starts, fumbling over his words. “It's really good to see you again; that's all.”

I feel my cheeks starts to flush a little. This is bad. I can't go getting all flustered by something like this, not with what's supposed to be happening later! I need to steel myself. I need to get a grip.

“So, uh, shall we?” He points to the hotel's many floors, stopping about halfway up. “That one's mine. Let's take the elevator. It's really cool in there.”

Once we're there, I realize that he's right – it is really cool in here. The walls of the elevator itself are glass, so you end up watching the world around you fly by as you ascend. This isn't the kind of elevator one can fool around in, I note silently.

The ride up to his room is a poignant mixture of expectation and dread. I certainly want to do things with him, but I can't help feeling like something's wrong – like what I did the night before was wrong – like maybe I've betrayed him by allowing myself to feel so good with Francois. There was no question of which encounter I had preferred, and that's part of what scares me so much.

Once the elevator stops, we shuffle out while some others shuffle in. Zidane leads me to his room, which is all the way at the end of the hallway. Once we're finally there, I feel my heart drop as he opens the door. It's magnificent.

A cursory inspection yields sheer, ornamental splendor: the walls are the color of strawberry cream whilst the floor is lined with chic carpeting – the fibers closest to gunmetal in their coloring – aided with a plushness so fierce it might put an Altaria's plumage to shame. Stumbling forward into this exquisite excuse for a hotel room, I discover various embellishments, strategically placed in order to add to the overall swankiness of the room. The King-sized bed placed adjacent to the entry door is outfitted in a plush duvet, patterned in the sort of decadent flowers a Flabebe might call home, the windows are equipped with matching curtains, and the solidity of the plain pink walls is challenged by the haphazard existence of a lavish painting here and there, all depicting various – and rather elegant Pokemon – and all resting within deep onyx frames. My gaze bounces from portrait to portrait, admiring the radiance of each image: a band of Beautifly, fluttering just above a picturesque rainbow, a Milotic leaping elegantly out of the ocean, a Sylveon—wait, _Sylveon_? The horrifying image in question, a Sylveon amid a backdrop of flower fields, covered from head to toe in blossoms, stares me down from its home – just above the room's meager “kitchenette.” Zidane mumbles something apologetic – perhaps because of the rather cutesy nature of a room designed for wanton sexual frolics and undesirably long business trips – but all I can focus is on that painting – _that_ painting. Within moments, I collapse across the bed, desperate to distract myself with the sheer comfort of the downy duvet.

“Margeaux? What's wrong?” he asks. At this point, I realize he's been trying to get my attention longer than I've noticed.

“Nothing's wrong!” I yelp, searching for the right words. “This bed is … extremely soft.”

“I know, right?” he starts, going off on a tangent about the room.

I writhe around on the bed while he yammers, trying to find a good way to transition topics. Rather than say anything at all, I decide it's best simply to start removing my clothing. That should send the message. Before my shirt is even halfway over my head, my breasts not yet exposed, Zidane stops short in his rant about interior design, realizing just what I'm trying to do.

I can't see what he's doing, but it feels like he's doing his best to undo my bra. I can feel his breath on my chest as he eventually clears the hooks, then removing it as delicately as someone can. Noticing that I'm yet again trapped in my shirt, he elects to help me out. Before he can say or do anything, I lift up my skirt, showing him that I haven't been wearing panties on my way up here. He blushes thoroughly, kissing me as if to dispel impure thoughts by doing so. But of course, I know what he's thinking about. I don't need a Heart Stone to see what he has in store for me.

I reach out to the bulge in his pants, giving it a quick once-over of what I'd like to do to it. In response to my attack, Zidane pushes me back onto the bed, planting a line of kisses down my neck, then my breast. He finishes with a nip to my neck, which leaves my head facing – of course – the painting of Sylveon. This suddenly takes a lot out of me, as I'm awash with guilt and self-loathing at the thought of the night before. I try to speak up, but I find myself faltering, scared. I really shouldn't be doing this, I think, freaking out internally. There's no telling how he'll react when he finds out. But I have to say something! I can't let him do sordid things to me without first letting him know the truth about me.

“I can't go through with this!” I cry, covering my mouth shortly after. Tears start to well up in my eyes. Zidane rolls off of me, looking concerned.

“What's wrong, Margeaux? Is there anything you need?”

“I – I … I had sex with Francois,” I murmur, almost inaudibly. He hears me anyway, thankfully, so I don't have to repeat myself.

“Did something bad happen between you two? If he hurt you in any way, I'll kick his fluffy ass.”

I laugh a little to myself at that remark. “No, it's not like that at all. I just – I thought about it, and I used the Heart Stone like you said, and when I saw all the things he wanted from me …. It was like I couldn't help myself. I just let him do whatever he wanted with me, and it was … it was good.”

“Wait,” he starts, sitting up to look me in the eye. “Are you telling me that the worst thing that happened last night was that you enjoyed yourself?”

I nod. “I feel like a freak, Zidane. And I can't stand the thought of having you do anything with me not knowing about what happened, so I just – I had to say it. I'm sorry.”

“Hey, don't feel sorry for any of this! And you shouldn't feel like a freak.”

“What about the kind of person I'm becoming isn't freakish?”

“Things like Heart Stones are older than either you or I could possibly imagine. Honestly, the whole traditions behind the way people go about these things – it's practically written in our blood how we do it – it's something far older and much more natural than you might expect. There are so many people who do this kind of thing, just like us.”

“Wait … Us? You never told me you were into Pokemon.”

He sticks a hand behind his neck to scratch nervously. “Well, uh, yeah. I may not have mentioned it, but I totally meant to! You see, I've been involved with my Pokemon for quite a while.”

Blood rushes to my face at the thought of him straddling his dragons, doing all the things he does to me to them instead. I find myself uncomfortably jealous, but of course, I should hide that particular feeling. Just a pang or two every now and then is healthy, perhaps, but I should definitely be holding back about this. This means he's been going at it with his Pokemon even before – and perhaps during – our reunion just days ago. On some level, I'm disappointed, but on another, I'm simply intrigued. The thought of him with a Pokemon may inspire a certain amount of negative emotion, but it sends a heat into my brain that I just can't seem to shake.

“Well, I guess now that we've both confessed, it's time to kiss and make up?” I'm trying a little too hard, of course, but I think Zidane secretly enjoys it when I do so.

All he says before again pressing his lips down to mine is “It's time.”

What feels like hours pass quickly as we regale each other with stories of our various encounters with Pokemon. Of course, he has much more to say than I do, but it still feels like my contribution was valuable. He has only been with Agnes and Adonis, his Noivern and Dragonair, respectively. Towards the end of this conversation, I find myself silently dreaming about what it must be like to be wrapped up in all those scales, mind going sour with lust. If his dragons will have me, I'm sure to try them on someday.

“You know, it's late,” Zidane starts, almost as if he's about to shut down the night. “We should go somewhere.”

“Where are you thinking?”

“Somewhere neither of us have ever been, but somewhere I've long dreamed about visiting. Somewhere I should hope you've had similar fantasies about, ever since you became aware of its existence.”

“You know, you're right. We should go there.”

And with that, we're off into the night. But not before I put my clothes back on, of course.

~*~

You can't quite conclude why, but Cafe Introversion appears to have taken on a whole new look under the waning moonlight – perhaps this is simply the nature of things in the dark, or, perhaps, this nighttime viewing is tinged by the nature of what you now know to be its hidden agenda. A sweeping glance of South Boulevard yields little to digest to the unseen eye: a swing-lidded industrial trashcan, quavering gently, no doubt under the assault of a rather voracious stray Rattata or Trubbish, a couple of wayward kitchen scullions huddle together at the edge of an alley that cuts just behind another cafe – currently nameless to you – among the hundreds that Lumiose has to offer, puffing aggressively on half-finished cigarettes, determined that a five minute break will see them through a full smoke.

“Are you ready?” Zidane whispers to me, although he's shaking, too. This kind of thing might be normal for someone more used to the kinds of depravity the night has to offer, but to us, it's an entirely untamed frontier of lewdness. We've done our homework on how to get in, thanks to the Wonders of the Internet, but not before wading through an endless ocean of not entirely unwanted pornography.

“Let's go,” I tell him, giving him a slight nudge. We enter the cafe slowly, but once we're in, no one's to be seen, aside from the lone man behind the counter. This is good, I tell myself. This way, there's no chance of someone who doesn't know what's going on seeing us and starting to suspect things. That said, even if there were people here, the methodology behind getting inside is fairly solid.

“I have a reservation booked,” Zidane declares in his most “I have a reservation booked”-ly type of voice.

“Under what name?” The man behind the counter inquires, giving us a once-over. He seems skeptical.

“Nephilim.”

Nodding in understanding, the man leads us to the corner of the room, ushering us forward. Zidane is the first to make a move, pushing his hand through the back wall, which was apparently not there in the first place. This illusory barrier gives way to a tunnel, I find, walking through it myself. This tunnel isn't all that long, but the wait to see what lies beyond is completely agonizing. At the final doorway to 'Mon Amour, I feel the beginnings of a qualm. Quickly, another one rises, followed by many more. I shake away these thoughts at once, doing my best to journey forward.

'Mon Amour is many things, and it is many sensations, but it is nothing that I had expected. The caged dancers and fervent orgies and near-apocalyptic abandon I had pictured are instead replaced by a small group of modestly-dressed people sitting around a series of circular tables, drinking and laughing softly about something only they know. The stench of sex I assumed would permeate the air here is replaced by the distinct scent of alcohol and lemon-scented cleaners. The strobe lights of my dreams are nowhere to be found, as the lighting in here is almost exclusively held up by oddly-shaped lamps. Trepidation arises in me as I walk with Zidane towards the people in the center of the room. But this fear soon gives way to awkward smiles when someone in the group cries out,

“Fresh meat!” A few of the others follow suit, and soon, the whole room seems more alive.

Once we finally settle in at a table, however, the people here seem less interested in us. They're far more concerned with talking about music; specifically, they're locked in a heated debate about the song “Egg Said Road” by some band called The Shitty Beedrills.

“It's nonsense,” says a man who, upon further inspection, appears to be wearing nothing but overalls. “What could it possibly even mean? _Egg said road, and toast said no, but I said yes._ That's the core, no – that's the crux of the song – and it means nothing.”

“It has to mean something!” another man cries out, pounding his fists on the table. Others next to him try to calm him down, but to no avail. “I know it does! I can feel it! I can feel the existential crisis behind this music. To say yes when others are denying you, to put forth a good hand when everything around you is eroding into the flooding river of life's cruelty: isn't that _exactly_ what it means to love a Pokemon in this world?” The two girls beside him nod their heads in slow agreement.

“Fireplace,” starts Overalls Man, “I just don't see it. Not every little song ever made by every band has even the slightest thing to do with us or with what we do here. You're stretching the ideas too thin, you know?”

This goes on for a while. And not just a few minutes, a while. I mean a long while. Longer than should be legally permitted. Amid the chaos of this fierce discussion, someone decides to talk to me.

“Sorry that this has to be your first impression. It really is your first time here, right?” they whisper, trying not to get caught up in the table conversation by accident. I turn to look at them, then turn away. I start to realize something about 'Mon Amour after seeing her, and after scanning the table, my fears are confirmed: I made the mistake of sitting down at the hot people table. They're all hot. Some are just a little hot, while others, like the girl who just spoke to me, are distinctly hot, but all of them are certainly attractive in their own right. This girl next to me, in particular, has quite the glow to her. Her long, braided black hair trails down her neck to her chest. Her skin is like that of a black cherry, and her eyes are a striking violet. She's wearing a white tank top and that one kind of jean shorts that barely even looks like clothing. Her breasts stand out to me, but they're not unnecessarily massive. The curious thing is her single earring, which almost looks like it's made of a Heart Stone.

“Let me give you a quick run-down on some things you'll want to know before you do anything,” the girl next to me says instructively. “For starters, basically, there are no real social groups here. You just kind of float around and do whatever you want, in that sense.” Only a hot person can truly believe such a thing. What have I gotten myself into? “Also, there are Haunters everywhere. They're constantly running security to make sure no one's in any kind of objectionable situation, from the shadows. They also act as bartenders. Let me show you.” She holds up some money, which quickly vanishes in a puff of purple smoke, and soon, two ghostly hands place two shots on the table in front of us. The girl pushes one towards me, downing the other without a care.

I stare at it for a moment, trying to ascertain just exactly what it might be without having to ask anyone around me. It's ….green. Bright green. The kind of green that signals radioactivity in shitty movies. The kind of green that looks like it's going to reach up and consume me if I don't drink it first. It occurs to me at this point that I have just been bought a drink by someone at an underground sex club. Does it mean something if I take it? Am I implicitly honor-bound to service this girl if I take her gift past my lips? Why doesn't this thought bother me in the slightest? In fact, the idea that she might want me is starting to sound just as hot to me as everyone sitting at this table.

I look over at Zidane, as if to ask permission for what I may or may not be about to become entangled in, depending on this girl's final opinion of me before the night ends, and it comes to my attention that he's doing just fine, if not better than I am. He's already quite drunk (although he's something of a lightweight, so it's not much of an accomplishment), making conversation with the men of the table about pretty much the entire discography of The Shitty Beedrills while some nubile, perky, supple young woman hangs off his arm, as well as his every word. Not to be outdone, I down my shot of green, sludgey goodness and resume talking to the girl next to me in hushed tones.

It tastes like death, but not like a lot of death. Only a little death, really. It sends shivers through my body in all directions, leaving me kind of jittery. It's definitely the strangest kind of alcohol I've ever had, assuming that it is indeed alcohol.

“So there are Haunters all over,” I rehash, trying to get back into the groove of talking to her.

“Yeah, and that's not all. This place might look huge as it is, but it's only one of the four main rooms. In this room, only humans are allowed. It's a place to drink, talk, and just kind of hang out. In the ones adjacent to this room, people and Pokemon just kind of mix together freely, and let me tell you, that's where most of the wildness is. But in the far room, only Pokemon are allowed. No human here really knows anything about it, other than that we all assume it's probably a gigantic orgy in there at all times. It's also worth noting that there are 12 human-accessible private rooms, the only places to get away from the Haunters and have a little fun without anyone watching.

Anyhow, there's more. You can if you want to, but most people here don't use their own names. I go by Posh. That's Trash. He's Fireplace. That's Venom. She's Frost. She's Omega. And that one hanging off your boyfriend, that's Tits.”

“H – he's not my boyfriend,” I stammer out. What kind of a name is Tits, anyway? I'll admit it's a fitting one, but really. Really.

“Good.” Posh takes it upon herself to buy us another round of eerie green stuff, and this time, we drink it together. It tastes different this time, and drinking it feels less like resigning myself to some obscure, dark, deeply sexual fate, and feels more like I'm just having fun. This place is strange, but I am enjoying myself, on some level.

“So this not-boyfriend,” Posh begins again. “Is it just me, or does he look exactly like Lance, but taller?”

“It's not just you. His resemblance to the man is probably why Tits seems so interested.”

“I think you're right,” Posh snickers. I realize now that I didn't mean to say that. Perhaps the drinking is getting to me already. I've always revered myself to be something of a heavyweight, or at least, not a lightweight. But there's something awfully powerful at work in these green things I keep taking, and I'm starting to feel a little giggly.

“Do you choose your own name, or does someone else have to give it to you?” I ask.

“Most people just take up their own name after a few visits, but others earn them. Trash, for example, has – confirmed – fucked a Garbodor. He'd fuck anything, really, so it just stuck to him.”

“Whoa.” is all I can manage to get out. I'd better chase that thought away. Just the thought of what it might have smelled like is starting to kill my buzz.

“I know, right?” For some reason, this last line gets us both laughing. By the time we both settle down, I notice yet another tiny glass of green sludge in front of me. Without thinking, I throw back yet another shot of this mystery drink, and I notice a smile forming on Posh's face. It's not just any smile, however. There's a distinctly sexual tinge to the curvature of her lips. At this point, I realize that everyone around me is drunk and horny; upon further reflection, I should have expected this to happen.

Fireplace and Trash (Overalls Man) are making out, Frost is drinking something out of Omega's navel, Venom appears to be not-very-discreetly jerking off under the table, and even Zidane is face-deep in Tit's tits. It's time to take action. I lean over to Posh and kiss that smile right off her face. She doesn't mind at all, running a hand up my leg to just beneath my skirt. I let out a sharp noise as she drags a finger across my panties. She breaks the kiss for a moment, solely to bring that finger to her lips, tasting the essence of my arousal. And with that, I guess that's the story of my first kiss with a woman. It wasn't anything I'd ever speculated it would be; it was better.

Posh stands me up from the table, taking me over to what I can only assume is one of the private rooms she alluded to earlier. No one really seems to notice us leave, not even Zidane. This only brings me down for a moment, however, for soon, the door is open. I follow her in to the room, which is almost spartan in its design, aside from the black velvet bed right in the center. Posh closes the door behind us. She reaches for my waist, trying to take off my shirt.

“You know what a Heart Stone is, right?” she inquires, successfully pulling the shirt over my head, moving on to my bra. She giggles to herself once she notices the Stone around my neck, holding it up and eyeing it closely. “This might be the biggest one I've ever seen, actually. Where did you get this?”

“I have connections,” is all I say, somewhat addled by alcohol. Is it alcohol? I feel tipsy, sure, but there's something else to it. I keep seeing things out of the corner of my eye that aren't really there; I keep struggling to find myself as anything other than a doll in a dollhouse; it's like I'm locked in a dream state, watching myself act, still able to control myself, but feeling as if the idea of control is nothing more than an illusion I'm given to in my mind's wandering state.

“I have another important question for you,” Posh starts back up after unhooking my bra. She begins kneading my breasts softly, occasionally digging in harder for more. “Would you like to meet Philos? He's a Milotic. He's been thinking about you all night, you see, and if you don't mind him getting involved in our fun, I think he'd be a great addition to the party.”

“I've never even seen a live Milotic before,” I blurt out. She seems pleased by this. “And in what sense are you using the word party: in that we're partying, or in that the two of us form a small party of individuals?”

“I guess I'm using _party_ in both ways. The question remains, new girl: would you like to meet Philos?”

“I suppose I do. Send him out, Posh.” A flash of light fires from the Pokeball on her hip, releasing onto the bed the hulking behemoth of a creature that is Philos. I realize immediately that I'm looking at a shiny Pokemon. His body is a mix of silvers and golds and all sorts of colors, and I find myself transfixed in a combination of total fear and arousal when I see his almost opalescent member begin to unsheathe itself.

“What do you think?” Posh chimes.

“He's beautiful.” is all I can say as I walk toward the bed. Once on it, I find myself crawling toward the biggest dick I've ever seen in my life. Checking my Heart Stone for reference, I see that this Pokemon is pretty much down for me putting his cock anywhere I can manage to fit it in. Just by the looks of it, I can fit it in approximately no orifices my body has to offer. It's at least a foot long and several inches at its base, tapering conically to a fine tip, pulsing like a distant, supremely radioactive star. I reach out to it, and upon grasping it, I can feel the Pokemon's heartbeat. I start to stroke it with both hands, taking it slow so as not to startle him. I become so entranced in this action that I almost fail to notice Posh taking off my skirt, then my panties, leaving my rear exposed and open to whatever she deems necessary. Using the Stone in her earring, she knows exactly what I want from her.

I moan just a little when Posh inserts a single finger into me, then a little more when she starts to play around inside. Soon another finger follows, and the two of them set to work at destroying any inhibitions I have left. I feel myself moving in tune with the thrusting of her fingers against my g-spot, moving faster as she occupies her other hand with my clit. I open my mouth wide and give Philos's cock a lick, starting at the very base, going all the way up, finishing with a kiss. I repeat this action several times, relishing in the soft noises the Milotic makes with every blow I land on him.

Philios has begun to encircle the two of us with his serpentine body, constricting ever so slowly as if to bring us deeper into his realm. Posh, as if signaled by her Pokemon, retracts herself from me and flips me over backwards. Stunned by this martial-arts-esque move, I soon find Philos to be between my legs, just barely grinding against my labia. I start to groan under the pleasurable pressure of this new position, only to be silenced with a kiss. Posh climbs over top of me, pressing her body against mine, as well as against Philos. At this point, we're wrapped in a cocoon of Philos, the two of us making out sloppily and pressing ourselves against Philos's member. Posh grinds on not only Philos, but my clit as well, so I wrap my legs around her, to bring her closer to me. I don't really know what to do with my hands, so I just run them down her back, hoping that I'm not messing up horribly.

I've never even imagined sex like this before. Sure, this is my first threesome and my first time with a girl, but for it to include a massive, almost otherworldly creature like Philos is certainly a new frontier for me, even beyond all the firsts I'm experiencing. I feel like I've just begun to unlock this world's darkest secrets, as if my journey is nowhere near over. The feeling of Posh's body against my body against Philos against Posh against me is a never-ending loop of sexuality; it fills me with joy. The warmth of these two cradling me is almost as wonderful as the orgasm I feel building up. Soon, I'm lost in the throes of that familiar feeling, expressing myself solely through my tongue as it tries its best to win its game of tonsil hockey against Posh.

She starts to moan and spasm like me, following suit by increasing her aggression with our kiss. Soon, even Philos is giving in to the reigning champion of physical decadence that is cumming. Thick semen erupts from the tip of his cock like a splendid fountain of eternally corrupted youth, leaving a trail all over Posh's back. I take it upon myself to lick it off of her, and she trembles somewhat with every swipe of my tongue over her body.

We just lie there for a while, soaking in each other's body heat. But soon, this gives way to further erotic entanglements between Posh and me. I start on Posh's labia with playful licks as she positions herself over me, and in time we're both going all-out on each other, trying to see who can make the other one cum first. Of course, being less experienced, I'm the first one to give way to higher pleasure, but she doesn't take long in following my lead. This continues for a veritable eon of fucking, my feelings escalating with every orgasm, until finally, I can't take any more. We go back to simply lying around on each other, just for a little longer.

Eventually, we part ways, and I'm the first to leave the room. My legs wobble ever so much with each step, and I find myself thoroughly dazed by both the alcohol's and the fucking's after-effects. At length, I find my way out of 'Mon Amour and into a cab, falling asleep promptly in the back. The driver wakes me up when we reach my place, and I thank him quietly, running out in embarrassment. I make my way up to my room, find my way to my bed, and plop down. It's been a long night, and I've plowed my way through a lot of new experiences, and now, it is time to sleep.

 


End file.
